


broken fragments.

by crustydustyjorts



Category: my hero - Fandom, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, One Shot, emetophobia warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29249520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crustydustyjorts/pseuds/crustydustyjorts
Summary: katsuki bakugo, pro hero dynamight, recently lost a friend. he blames himself for failing to convince her to stay, believing if he'd been just a little more persuasive he could've saved her life.
Kudos: 1





	broken fragments.

**Author's Note:**

> my first "fic"! It's really just a snippet of a roleplay thing I wrote, but I think it works well enough on it's own!
> 
> for a little context, annie was bakugo's housemate/friend for a while before she essentially convinced someone to assist her suicide with little warning, texting him her goodbye.

Katsuki’s hand rested on the back of the couch, his eyes tracing where Annie had lied what felt like only minutes ago. How did one disappear so quickly? He’d seen people die, of course he had, but that was in the heat of battle. Hell, he’d probably been the cause of a few deaths himself. But he wasn’t a murderer for sport, nor was he particularly suicidal. He acted out of necessity, not want.

Not selfishness.

Hot tears burned his eyes, his brows drawing together as his palm left smoke rising from the smooth fabric. Annie’s words played in the back of his mind, burnt into his memory like a broken record. ’But I’ve gotta have a kid at some point. Ha! Fuck kids. I bet you were a shitty kid.’ It hurt. It hurt because she had been right, it hurt because she would never have a kid, it hurt because he missed her. His throat felt like it was closing, restricting his breathing, leaving him choking out sobs as he burnt a handprint into the furniture he and Eijiro had so carefully selected.

Katsuki felt sick. He could practically feel bile burning at the back of his throat, a sickly warning of what was to come if he couldn’t fend off the nausea. What kind of man behaved that way? Eijiro was strong, Eijiro would push through for his friends. Eijiro wouldn’t harass his grieving friend out of group chats, wouldn’t spitting permanent marker insults onto her paper skin. Eijiro wouldn’t behave so selfishly, he wouldn’t prioritize himself over his friends.

Eijiro wouldn’t be swallowing back vomit and a panic attack over a friend doing what she deemed best.  
Yet Katsuki could feel tremors running down his arms into his numbing hands, his breath coming in short, harsh gasps. Thoughts were fleeting as he lifted his hands, staring at the burnt prints through tear-clouded eyes. It was almost beautiful, a work of modern art. It was a silly thought, one that brought a sick, strangled laugh to his lips. 

Everything felt distant, his voice not his own as he sank down, down to the floor. Once he was sitting his hands found their way to the back of his head, weaving into his spiked hair and knotting there. He could almost hear Annie’s voice, taunting him. She’d been that way- teasing for no reason, always seeing how far she could push him. What would she say if she saw him now, panicking over the loss of a person that barely considered him anything more than an angry, pushy landlord?

Surely that’s what they’d been.

Not friends, just housemates. Friends didn’t leave, friends didn’t say their goodbyes over text. Friends listened, friends let themselves be helped. 

Did Katsuki have friends? He had Eijiro, who owned his entire heart and then some. He usually accepted help from the redhead, too head over heels to deny his pouty-lipped look of concern.

Deku considered him a friend. Deku, the boy he’d bullied through their entire childhood. The boy always willing to stick up for him, always willing to defend him, always willing to run to his aid at the smallest hint of trouble. What did Katsuki ever do in return besides hurt him? Hurt, hurt, hurt. Take. Tell him to kill himself.

Maybe he should try taking his own advice- surely it’d be a burden lifted off everybody’s shoulders. His friends wouldn’t have to keep him from (literally) blowing up, his Eijiro wouldn’t have to apologize for things he said in fits of rage. Izuku wouldn’t have to pretend to care for a man that had done nothing but attack him relentlessly for years.  
But that’d be easy. That‘d be the cowards way. Was DynaMight a coward? Probably not. Katsuki Bakugo, however? Most definitely. He went for the weak, went for the throats of those he deemed powerless. Went for the throats of people who looked up to him. Of people who thought he was good. Of people like Izuku Midoriya.

A violent twist of his stomach brought him back to the present, bringing him scrambling to his knees and then to his feet and then to the bathroom. Feeling disgusting (he deserved it, of course he deserved it. He deserved worse, he deserved hell.), he jerked up the toilet seat and braced his palms against the edge. 

Vomiting was an unpleasant experience to say the least. It was hot, it burned the blood-leaking marks in his cheeks where he’d bitten into his own flesh. When had that happened? Surely recently; he could taste the metallic tang of blood mixing with the bitter taste of his own sick. He wanted to wash out his mouth, he wanted to find Eijiro, he wanted to save Annie, he wanted to die.

Did he want to die? Not truly. He wanted... peace. He wanted to get rid of the deep-rooted anger he blamed on a shitty up-bringing and years or habit. Habits were hard to kick, but deep down he knew it was his fault. Everything was his fault. Had he not made Annie feel wanted enough? Surely their short friendship was enough to show he valued her. He valued each of his friends- he even valued Shitty Deku. Who would leave next? Who would die next because od his short-comings and inability to speak when he was needed most? Eijiro, Deku, Denki, Mina? Eri? Who would decide he wasn’t worth the trouble next? Who would try to convince him they needed to die, leave him with the sharp knife of failure wedged where it hurt worse?

His mother had made it clear he deserved anything that came his way. Her abuse, his kidnapping, any injuries he gained on the job. She was one of the people that loved him most, she had no reason to lie.  
Red marks were left on his palms as he lifted them from the smooth porcelain. He flushed quickly, eyes shut tight as he tried to ignore the left over taste and reek left from his puking. He leaned back, shifting his hands against the cool tile floor. He always ran hot, it was part of his Quirk. If he was warm, he sweat more, and if he sweat more he made bigger explosions. Some days he wondered how he‘d be without a Quirk. Would he have ended up like Deku, but without All Might to push power onto him? Would he have had his own Kacchan, would he have taken that swan dive off the roof? He doubted he’d be strong enough to handle everything Izuku had.

In the end, it was the stupid fucking nerd that was the better man. He always had been, and he probably always would.

He’d been chosen by their idol, he’d been almost like a son to the former number one hero. He’d been set up for success since the man laid eyes on him, while people like Katsuki were left wondering why they poured their everything into fighting for that number one spot. Deku didn’t understand. He’d gone from nothing to having the most powerful Quirk possibly ever. Katsuki had been left behind years ago, left to sit stagnant in a festering pond of his own creation. 

It hurt. Every one of his failures were outlined clearly for him to see, and be unable to fix. He’d never surpass Izuku. He’d never save all the people they’d lost along the way. He’d never save Annie, he’d never bring her back.

It scared him.

Katsuki Bakugo, pro hero DynaMight, was terrified. He was terrified of what he’d became, terrified of who he’d allowed himself to be. Nothing but a massive, thick-skulled, shitty bully. Deku had been right all along. Did he even deserve to call himself a hero?  
Eijiro was stuck with him, whether it be because he truly thought he loved Katsuki or because he felt some sorr of sick moral obligation to stay with him. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was the latter. What kind of man would be be if he abandoned Katsuki knowing he was the only person who the blond let close?

Bakugo lifted a hand to cover his mouth, sticky tear trails becoming wet once more as he tried to swallow another sob. Would he end up alone? That’s what he deserved, wasn’t it? He earned his place in hell, and surrounded himself with people who did the opposite. He surrounded himself with sunshine while managing to stay in the shadows.

When would he face the consequences? It had to catch up to him eventually, it had to end badly. His empire built of paper and cardboard, run by a king of fire and recklessness. Maybe that would be the end of him. Maybe he’d end up bringing his own death in the form of licking flames deciding they liked the way he tasted, consuming him whole. 

It’d be a fitting death for a tyrant. The foundation of his throne crumbling and bringing his inevitable death. He’d like to go out that way, he’d like to go out in style. Literally in flames.

Katsuki laughed again, bitter and frail, his bile-stung throat aching. Was this who he was? Katsuki Bakugo, sobbing over things that were far out of his control. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like any of it, so he got to his feet and walked to the sink. He didn’t like his reflection in the mirror as he leaned the heels of his hands against the sink, tired crimson eyes meeting those of his reflection. He didn’t like the way his face was wet, his eyes still swimming with tears, his lips dry and cracking, his hair even more a mess than usual.  
He didn’t like it, so he raised a hand and drew back a fist, throwing a signature right hook into the clean reflective glass. He did, however, like the red blossoming from his knuckles and hand, dripping in thick rivulets down his arm. He liked how it looked on the white marble sink (probably fake), liked the way it colored his otherwise milky white skin. Liked the way it dripped onto his shirt and spread, leaving a constellation of blood droplets. It was beautiful, a work of modern art like his newly ruined couch. 

”What in the fuck are you doing, Katsuki?” he whispered, staring at the hundred mini-Bakugo’s watching from each fragment of glass. ”What are you doing?”


End file.
